


mistakes aren't always regrets

by julietcapulet



Category: Bates Motel (2013)
Genre: F/M, Oedipal Issues, Parent/Child Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-19 01:36:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1450489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/julietcapulet/pseuds/julietcapulet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternative ending to 2x06. Normcest abounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	mistakes aren't always regrets

**Author's Note:**

> **Title** : mistakes aren't always regrets  
>  **Fandom** : Bates Motel.  
>  **Rating** : Explicit.  
>  **Pairing(s)** : Norma/Norman.  
>  **Word Count** : 3024.  
>  **Warning(s)** : Mother/son incest.

The first time it happens it follows in the aftermath of a fight. A bad one. Norman wants his driver’s license, his effective ticket to independence, to manhood, and you cannot give him that. He isn’t ready (and neither are you). He storms out of the vehicle and down the road, and you have half a mind to chase after him, to force him back into the car, but your legs are frozen to the spot and you’re transfixed by his image, receding slowly into the distance. When you find your voice it rips through your lungs like the aftershock of an earthquake, with you, stranded at the center of an imbalanced Richter scale.

“Norman!” you scream, and he feigns ignorance, continuing without so much as a pause, a second thought to the destruction he’s leaving in his wake. But the second time you call his name, the second time you say it, you say, “Norman!” he halts in his step, though he does not turn around. Encouraged, you begin to plead with him, your voice, your mind, your very essence only able to repeat his name, the name you’ve given him after yourself, because that’s what he is, he is your self, and you are his, and when he was born the stars looked down upon you with the knowledge that you could never be parted. “Norman,” you cry, “Norman!” And finally he turns back around, though you can’t make out his face from the space between you.

You break the distance slowly, with only a step, afraid that he, like a wounded animal caught in the radar of his predator, will turn and run away, or worse, play dead, your efforts to pacify him falling on deaf ears. But a movement flickers within him and he matches you, takes a step forward, and you imagine his eyes on you, full of fury and sadness and blame, as if they were but inches from your own. “Norman,” you say, and this time it is broken: not a plea, not an order, not a defeat, but rather a whisper, from your heart to his. And his heart hears it, in spite of his ears. He takes another step, and then another, and then he’s striding to you with a pace to match his earlier departure. 

Before he can catch you you’ve stumbled to your knees, body a jumble of fears and insecurities and unspeakable need, and he isn’t there to hold you like he normally is, not yet. You didn’t realize until now how much you rely on his arms for the strength to stand on your own.

“Mother,” he says, and it’s not an apology. He stoops to you and you can’t look at him, you can’t bear to see that wrath directed at you, not again. But he takes your chin with his fingers and tilts your head upward and when your eyes finally meet it’s not anger that you see; it’s something darker, something more frightening, and something within you responds to it with a twist in your belly. “It’s okay,” he attempts, moving his hands to cup your face. You shiver at his touch. 

“Don’t leave me, Norman,” you manage, the threat of tears heavy under your eyes. “I’ll die if you leave me.” And then your world shatters and you surrender to the sobs clogged in your throat, the unshakeable thought of him abandoning you sounding a death knell in your ears. “I’ll die,” you emphasize, amidst sobs. 

“I won’t leave you,” he soothes, “I promise. You’re everything. Everything to me.” He presses a kiss to your forehead and you sigh into him, his scent, thick with the musk of youth and cologne, dizzying you. “I love you, mother,” he adds, and it’s a promise. Unbreakable. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Norman,” you reply, faintly. “So much.” Your hands weave up his back to anchor behind his neck, and without thinking you lay a kiss to the hollow of his neck, causing him to breathe sharply and press you closer. You can feel his heart beat, erratic and unbridled, and yours beats in tandem with his. The both of you remain like that for a moment, inhaling and exhaling in a perfect harmony, until your sobs have subsided and your eyes are closed and you’re leaning into him with every fiber of your being, almost wanting to become absorbed into him entirely (as if that would make things any easier between you).

You’re about to pull away, to collect yourself, when he stops you, crushing you even tighter against him. “Norman,” you start, confused, but then, “oh, Norman,” you concede, because trying to leave him is always a losing battle. “We’re going to be okay,” you tell him. “Everything is going to be okay.” 

And then finally he releases you, and you take a second to fill your lungs, feeling as if they’ve been folded in two by the pressure of Norman’s arms. He looks at you curiously. “Norman? What is it?”

He doesn’t answer. There’s something vacant in his eyes as he sidles back to you, and before you can ask him again his face is close to yours, somehow much closer than it’s ever been before, and––“Norman? Norman, what are you––” But you know what he’s doing and, god, you aren’t in a position to stop him.

It feels like an eternity that he waits, lips hovering so close to yours, almost close enough to touch, breath running hot on your face, eyes holding yours captive, unblinkingly, and perhaps he’s waiting for permission. You don’t know what to do. You don’t know how to handle this situation (there isn’t a book for mothers in love with their sons, much less for sons in love with their mothers, too). He’s afraid to take charge; he’s so used to that being your domain. But this is wrong, isn’t it? This is––oh, god, you’ve wanted this for so long, you’ve ignored the feelings, pushed them away, buried them along with every other body in your closet, but now you can’t ignore them, you’ve said the words with your eyes and your breath, and your body is making the decision for you. And you whisper the words that will change things forever. “It’s okay,” you say, softly. “It’s okay.”

With a groan, he propels himself forward and crashes his lips against yours, the hunger inside him almost as deep, almost as desperate, as yours. Ravenously, his hands search your body, memorizing every detail as if he’s reliving a long-cherished memory, and you, oh, you’re melting under his touch. You don’t think you could ever move from this spot until you hear a car drive by and panic seizes you. “We can’t,” you gasp, breaking away from him, “not here.” 

“I don’t care,” he mumbles, dragging your lips back to his.

“Norman,” you chide, throatily. “The car. Now.”

Grudgingly he obliges, shifting his weight onto his feet and rising, headed for the car. He walks stiffly but swiftly, sliding into the passenger seat and slamming the door shut behind him. You’re already there, hand on the wheel, pulling out into the road with a screech of your tires. 

Head clouded with lust, you attempt to focus on getting home. Once you’re home, things can continue within the safety of the house’s walls. But not here. Not now. 

Norman is getting anxious and impatient. Neither of you have spoken a word and it’s been at least a minute. What is there to say? There’s––oh. Oh, god. You look down and from the corner of your eye you see Norman’s finger sliding up underneath your pinafore, skirting over the expanse of soft flesh beneath. Your skin prickles with goosebumps and you try to moderate your breathing but his hands are so close to––oh, god. “Norman,” you exhale, mouth, dry, hanging open as his hand searches higher and higher up your thigh. But the protests die on your tongue the second his finger grazes your underwear, and you’re undone. 

You’re trying not to speed. You really are. The worst possible thing that could happen is for you to be pulled over with your son’s hands between your legs. But then again, would that be so horrible? You’d rather get pulled over than have him withdraw. 

“Norman,” you whisper, head falling back against the seat. “I––” But your voice is swallowed by a noisy breath as his hand dips beneath your underwear and is met with warm flesh. The muscles in your thighs tighten and constrict, and soon you’re bucking your hips against him gently, insistently, your teeth finding purchase on your lower lip. He swivels his finger over you once, twice, three times, and––“Norman, stop,” you beg him, as the speed of your vehicle soars higher and higher. But he doesn’t listen. Perhaps it’s the excitement of it all, touching each other for the first time after dreaming about it for so long, or perhaps he’s just a hormonal teenage boy, but––he’s not stopping, and you stop asking him to. 

Soon his finger has swirled inside you, hesitantly, as if even now he’s awaiting permission, but you’re incapable of speech so you just nod, rather too vigorously, and then he goes in deeper, and deeper, and it’s taking all of your willpower not to pull over now and let him have his way with you. But you can’t. It isn’t safe (as if there is any safe place for sinners like you). You don’t like to think about how he knows what he’s doing, how he’s learned with girls like Bradley and Cody, how he’s using what pleased them to please you, but––the fact that he’s not entirely virginal does more than just irk you. It thrills you, too. “More,” you instruct him, parting your legs as well as you can in this cramped car seat. He does as he’s told, inserting a second finger inside you, and you bite back a moan as he begins, tremulously, to pump them in and out of you at a steady rhythm. His own breathing is almost shallower than yours, and you can see his arousal from your peripheral view. It sends a shockwave through your body and you keen against him, biting down so hard on your lip that you fear you’ve drawn blood.

“Mother,” you hear him say, “We’re here.”

You open your eyes and somehow you’ve managed to drive all the way back to the motel without incident. His hand has slowed, now, and stopped, and you’re looking at him, face flushed and red, so close to ecstasy, and you’re not sure you can make it to the house.

As if he read your mind, he hops out of the car, walking rapidly so as to conceal his appetite, grabs a key from the office, and opens the nearest vacant room, shutting the door behind him. This is your cue to follow. You turn off the ignition and stand with shaky legs, shutting the car door quickly and trailing after him, a thin sheen of sweat coating your entire body. Your insides are thrumming and there’s a voice in your head begging you to stop, to turn around, to run away, but you can’t. You’ve lit the fire and you’re going to let it burn. 

Slowly, you knock on the door, and he opens it with little hesitation, taking you by the wrist and dragging you inside. You feel giddy, like the virgin you were never allowed to be, as he peppers your neck with kisses and explores your torso with his hands, but he’s not close enough to where you want him to be so with a certain degree of shyness hitherto foreign to you, you guide his palms to your breasts and he cups them greedily, causing your head to fall back against the door with a loud thud. At the impact, you let out a little squeak, and before you know it he’s giggling and you’re giggling and you’re squealing as he chases you to the bed and tumbles down on top of you, but then, when his hands reprise their work on your chest the giggle morphs into a moan and it isn’t a game anymore.

He’s rubbing circles over your breasts and he still hasn’t taken your dress off and you’re getting impatient. You flex your body upward against his ministrations and he presses into you, his need now impossibly pronounced between your thighs. You take charge, reaching back to unzip yourself, and he aids you toward this end, soon guiding it over your head until you lay beneath him in nothing but your bra and underwear, feeling terribly, intoxicatingly exposed. When he removes his own shirt and pants you stare at him unapologetically, exploring with your eyes the body that emerged from your own, that will forever be your essence, your own being. 

You’re painfully aware of the fact that your entire body is shaking with desire and your underwear is very likely ruined, and he tremulously attends to the remainder of your clothing, gingerly removing your bra first and then, finally, hovering over your underwear, eyes nervously looking up to you for permission. You nod firmly, and he wraps his hands around the fabric, tugging until they’re around your ankles. You kick them off along with your shoes, and press against him until his hand works its way back between your legs.

But you need something else.

“No,” you say, breathlessly. “No, not––” 

“Mother?” he asks, a fearful note in his voice, as if you’re going to ask him to stop altogether. 

“Not your hand, Norman,” you hint, but he looks at you confusedly until you clarify, shyly, “your mouth.” 

He turns a delicious shade of red and you feel yourself get lightheaded as he descends, leaving a trail of kisses across your abdomen in his wake. Finally when his mouth presses against your center you let out a virtually inhuman cry, hips rising off the bed with an unbelievable surge of pleasure. “Good boy,” you exhale somehow as you struggle to breathe through this (it’s an uphill battle, and one you forfeit as soon as his tongue discovers–– _oh_ ). You trade breathing for rapture and lean back, closing your eyes and grabbing fistfuls of blankets. “Oh, god,” you stutter, and it’s a concession rather than an invocation (God has turned a blind eye to Bates Motel and you doubt your prayers could reach him now; you’ve gladly surrendered your immortal soul for every second of this sin and the bridge between you and heaven is burning as hot and thick as the flame between your legs).  

He doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing, that much is abundantly clear, but his unpracticed tongue delights you all the same and soon you’re arching off the bed and he’s working faster and faster, making strangled noises as he feels you contract against his touch. You’re rocking against him now with wild abandon, so close to completion, but––this isn’t how you want it to happen. You jerk your hip to the side, momentarily disorienting your son, until you lean over and take his arousal in your hand, urging it closer to you, and then he understands.

His eyes darken and he lumbers over you, casting his underwear aside, and you regard him hungrily, wetting your dry lips with your tongue before he swallows your breath in a kiss and glides into you, all tension and tightness and brazen want. The pace is slow at first, then gradually accelerates in speed until the bed is creaking beneath your mutual weight and anyone within five feet of the motel door could easily guess what was happening inside. But you don’t care. This is something you’ve needed for so long that nothing else matters in this moment but you and Norman, you and your blood (you are in love with your son; the world can go to hell for all you care).

He comes quickly with an exhale of your name, much before you, but he does not tire. He senses the need in you and doubles the speed of his thrusts, moans bubbling from his lips incessantly until you silence them with your mouth, hands weaving up to anchor at either side of his head to drag him closer––but soon you’re fighting for air as if it were your life, and though you’re keeping his face near yours you’re hardly distracted by his noises so much as your own. You bite down on your lip as your moans soar higher and higher, tripling in intensity, and within an instant your entire body goes taut like a bowstring, every muscle simultaneously constricted and then, finally, relaxed, and within seconds you’re utterly spent. Your entire body sighs and you close your eyes, humming contentedly as he rolls to your side with a great puff of air. 

The world, almost unaware of your indiscretion, remains unchanged; somehow, rather impossibly, you were half expecting it to metamorphose, too, just as you have under your son's touch (he makes love in an awkward and unintelligible way and he’s fulfilled you more than any other lover––and this time it is _your_ choice, it is _your_ decision, it is _your_ body to give and you've given it to _him_ , the only person in the entire universe who's ever deserved it). 

“Was I––” he starts, voice shaking, “Are you––” 

“Yes,” you say, emphatically. “Yes, Norman. And you?”

“Oh, yes,” he responds quickly. “Yes.” Stillness. And then, “What does this––what does this mean, mother?”

You turn your head to look at him, face flushed, lips swollen red, eyes darkened with sated lust, and you say, barely above a whisper, “It means I love you, Norman.”

And the silence between you undercuts the fear, singing more words than any either of you could possibly hope to conjure. 

“I love you too, mother.”

He reaches for your hand and interlaces your fingers.

He is yours, now and forever, unbreakably, as you are his. 

(And not even God himself can look away.)

 

 

 


End file.
